Housebreaking Haunt
by CrimPysche
Summary: It's been three years, and nobody knows that fact more than John Watson. He's just beginning to get over Sherlock Holmes' death, mainly because there are other things happening that require his attention. Namely, a burglar that never takes anything, but insists on coming every week. (( Reichenbach Story, 1st Story, No Pairings, Rated T just for safeties! ))
1. Chapter 1

((Hi there! This is my first story, and like many of the stories on here, probably just another Reichenbach Return! Either way, I'd like some comments, some reviews, or anything at all, really! :D Regardless, I'll try to post new chapters every so often! Don't know how long it'll be, I'm afraid!))

"27 break-ins in the last six months, John."

It wasn't difficult to hear the frustration in Greg's voice. In some far corner of John's mind, he knew that he should have shared in Greg's anger. His flat, 221B (never 221A, Mrs. Hudson's, or 221C, the unoccupied) had been broken into more times than anywhere on Baker Street. Combined. The first break-in had only been one month after Sherlock's death. At that time, John had still been too distraught to do anything but let the Yard handle it. The forthcoming burglaries, happening every month or so, he tried to take a more active approach in handling them. Mycroft, as much as John detested the man, given his role in Sherlock's suicide, had even installed cameras. They'd been taken down since then, as they weren't doing a single thing to stop it.

They had increased in frequency. What would be a monthly broken window or forced front door turned into one every four weeks. Then every three. Now, in the last six months, they'd been happening nearly every week. Every week John would wake up to the sound of shattered glass, or of footsteps pattering through the flat. Or, alternatively, he'd wake up to find his things askew, his drawers rifled through, the front door's lock completely smashed. He didn't bother replacing the front door lock (now held in place only by a chain), but thankfully, the burglar had the decency to leave the windows alone as of late. One terrifying night, he'd woken up to a figure leaning over his bedside, although to that day, he couldn't put it as a dream or reality.

Nothing of John's had ever been taken. Although John had never been an extraordinarily wealthy man, he knew any burglar could get a few pounds for his laptop, his mobile, his watch. After the first initial burglaries John had tried to hide or put his valuables elsewhere, but now they just stood in plain sight. However, even if nothing was taken, the burglar seemed to hold a remarkable lack of privacy. His closet had been rifled through, the papers on his desk had been shuffled, all of the kitchen cabinets had left open.

What did rile John up, if only slightly, was that the burglar had not even left Sherlock's things alone. Around a year after Sherlock's death, John had finally plucked up the courage to pack all his things up. He couldn't find anyone to take them, so they just rested in Sherlock's room. They hadn't had the opportunity to gather up dust, because every week, without fail, they would be moved, shifted, gone through. As far as John could tell, nothing of Sherlock's had never been taken, but who on Earth really knew?

There were three inconveniences with this. One, Mrs. Hudson was going to have a heart attack one of these weeks, she really was. Two, it had ruined any hope John had for a regular schedule. Three, and perhaps the one that affected John most, was that he could no longer get anyone to move into the flat.

Dating had been a rather important part of his life, for a while. He had even asked one woman, named Mary, to move in. It was then that he told her about the burglaries, and she had just walked out on him. After John told his girlfriends, that was what they all did. Really, he didn't particularly blame any of them. Who would want to put up with that?

One solution was obvious. Move out of the flat. Greg had urged him to do that, and he had used the excuse that he wouldn't until all of Sherlock's things were given away or sold. Mrs. Hudson would need the company, he said. How was he supposed to find a suitable flat in London with his income, he said. Who on Earth would want to move in with the man who had been Sherlock Holmes's best friend, he said. While all those solutions were equally viable, John knew the real reason.

He prided himself on not being an emotional man. After Sherlock's death, when all the media reporters were swarming to his flat, he answered them crisply and politely. He had no break-down, he went to his therapist as he was instructed to, and he was able to talk about Sherlock to anyone who asked. That being said, he missed the man every day, a rather pathetic amount. And that was why John Watson didn't move out of his flat. He belonged there, just as much as Sherlock Holmes had belonged there.

He was snapped back from his thoughts by Greg repeating his previous statement, looking a bit more haggard than usual.

"_Twenty-seven _break-ins, John, do you understand this? Really, mate, I'd stop pressing your luck and just move out already."

The last sentence was said with a bit of sympathy. Greg, if anyone, knew how much John wanted to stay in that damnable flat.

"Look, Greg." He leaned forward and pressed his fingers to the bridge for just a second. "Nothing's been taken, Mrs Hudson and I haven't been hurt, and it's…it's harmless, Greg, it isn't hurting anyone."

Greg didn't appear convinced. Strangely, suspicion or distrust didn't appear on his face. There was the same concern that John had noted on the day of Sherlock's funeral and three years later. His next words only confirmed John's suspicions.

"This…this isn't your new _thing, _is it?" Greg's voice was a whisper, clearly not meant for anyone but John to hear it. Moot point, John noted grimly. Sitting here in Greg's office, it wasn't as if anyone was going to be eavesdropping anyway. "The thing that replaces his cases? Gives you that rush?"

There it was. John pursed his lips and stood up, brushing off his trousers and throwing his coat on. "Right. I don't want to press charges, Greg, and this isn't even your division. Just _leave it."_

The horrible truth of the matter was that Greg was probably right. Lacking the intuition and downright brilliance that Sherlock possessed, John had to look to something else. Something that would keep his life exciting, something that would keep his limp away, something that would make John feel alive once more.

And waking up to the sound of footsteps, not knowing who was lurking in his flat? That would do.

But it would only grow boring and reckless if John continued in this manner. No, as John Watson left the Yard behind, leaving a worried Greg Lestrade at his desk, he was determined to, as Sherlock would say, finish the game. The midnight intruder had to be stopped. What happened next John would worry about later.


	2. Chapter 2

((Hello all! Thank you for the support on the previous chapter! ^_^ Initially this was going to be a once-a-week sort of thing, but I had a bit of free time on my hands and decided to upload what I had for Chapter 2! ))

John had never been as intelligent as Sherlock.

That much, at least, was true. Was he a better conversationalist? Certainly. A better shot? Without a bloody doubt. Capable of taking care of himself, eating, sleeping, bathing on a regular basis? Obviously.

More human?

A low noise emitted from the back of his throat, nearly pained.

Tugging his jacket tighter around him to keep out the wind, John made his way up the stairs to 221B. Before he did, however, he gave a small rap on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Home now, Mrs. Hudson!"

The response came after the sound of several cookware pieces hitting one another. Mrs. Hudson was baking, John noted. Lovely woman, really. After his death, she insisted on having lunch with John at least once a week. They'd grown closer. "Nice to hear from you, dearie, how's that Inspector friend of yours?"

"Greg's fine, doing well." John replied, and then turned to go up the stairs to his own flat. It was well-put together, aside from a stray newspaper and a half-drunk cup of tea. Taking the tea, he disappeared into the kitchen. As always, his gaze fell on the table.

It'd been Sherlock's experiment table. To John's recollection, they'd never actually properly eaten on it. For good reason, John found out. A good while after, he had finally started to clear off the table. Stains littered almost every inch of it, and there were a few holes on the surface. He had the feeling that if he ever ate off it, he'd be in the morgue in record time.

Logically, he just should've gotten another table.

He took his kettle and placed it on to boil, running his hands through his hair. Likely he'd have to dig out his old Army revolver for that night. It had gathered up dust for the longest time. No reason to have it out before, and God knew he might need it to defend himself tonight. The thought of it gave him the slightest twinge of excitement. Adrenaline, more like.

The gun was in his drawer. Bullets directly under it. He loaded it and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, before heading up to Sherlock's room.

On his way back from the Yard, he thought about in which room he would sleep. His own room would be an idiotic choice, the couch would be too obvious to the invader. Then he thought about Sherlock's room, how the thief must have spent the majority of his time there every night. Invading Sherlock's privacy.

How silly he still thought of it like that, John realized. If anything, he should have wanted the thief to spend his time in there. What privacy did a dead man need? What should it matter to him if the thief rustled through Sherlock's things, things that he should've gotten rid of a long time ago, anyway?

He took that thought and hid behind it as he opened Sherlock's door.

At that point of time, it was growing dark around the streets of London. Baker Street was lined with a few streetlights, and the dim light from one set an eerie cast around the room. Everything was covered with a white sheet, from Sherlock's bed to the boxes that were stacked around the room. A few of Sherlock's wall decorations were still up, including his periodic table.

The burglar's work was clear as John investigated more closely. Some of the sheets were askew on the boxes, and, as he picked his way through a few, the packing tape was ripped off. He withdrew Sherlock's riding crop from one of the boxes, and then realized it'd been cut in two. That didn't seem like random snooping. Someone had intentionally done this.

When he was finishing going through the packing boxes (he'd found four broken test tubes, the teeth ripped out of Sherlock's comb, and what he only guessed was a glass eye shattered to bits), he realized that it was completely dark and the streetlights had gone out. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, but that didn't stop him from tripping over a box and falling to the floor.

Cursing, he opened his eyes, his line of sight directly under Sherlock's bed. The place that should have been the dustiest was completely dust free, as if it had been swept that very morning. That didn't alarm John, initially, however. No, it was what he made eye contact with as he had fallen, his nose just two inches away.

The skull.

The top of the skull and upper jaw were tilted back in a strange manner, and John realized with a shock what it was supposed to be.

The skull's mouth was open. Laughing at him.

"Oh, damn it, no-"

He pushed himself back from the bed, hitting his head against the opposite wall and groaning out loud. For a few seconds he just lay there, getting his heartbeat back to normal. That couldn't have been done as a simple accident, or even a prank. Someone knew it'd unnerve John. Someone intelligent, who knew what would make John feel the most ill at ease. For the first time in a long while, John felt something cold and icy in his veins.

Forcing himself up, he reached for his tea on the nightstand and took a cautious sip. Right. It was just a skull. John had faced worse than a bloody skull. He sat up on the bed, keeping his gun by his side. Hadn't he stayed up long nights with Sherlock before, hadn't he gone days without sleeping before? One night, waiting up. Easy enough. Nothing like his days with Sherlock or the Army.

He lasted for four hours.

It wasn't that he fell asleep, actually. No, he'd just been staying up, hoping that the burglar would choose that night to come, watching the door, before he began to feel uneasy. The flat always seemed to be creaking somewhere, which played hell on John's nerves. On occasion the wind would rattle the panes of the window, and, then, of course, he was reminded that he was in Sherlock's room.

Sherlock's room, where he would retire when he was sulking. Where John would drag him if he went one too many days without eating or sleeping. Where John would search on a weekly basis for his drugs.

And Sherlock would never walk in it again.

Despite the incidents at Baskerville, John wasn't inclined to believe in the supernatural. He was a doctor of medicine, and he liked facts. Granted, he also liked happy endings and romantic stories and true love, and everything else Sherlock called sentimental rubbish, but he wasn't going to believe there was a _monste_r hiding in his closet.

No, it was something a bit worse than a monster in the closet.

The night wore on a bit longer, and John took a hesitating breath. His room was starting to get to him, as much as he hated to admit. Despite the boxes scattered about, the room was still Sherlock's, and it seemed as if Sherlock could come in at any time. Combined with the creaking and the window panes rattling, John was starting to feel spooked.

"Just need something…tea. Yes, right." Picking up his now-empty mug, John stood up on shaky legs. The room was starting to close in on him, the darkness was starting to eat at him, and God help him, he could almost hear Sherlock's voice. Now he understood more than ever why his therapist had told him to not go near anything that reminded him of Sherlock.

If he had spent three years doing this, he knew he would've gone absolutely mad.

He tucked his gun in the waistband of his trousers and then checked his watch. Half-past two. When he saw the time, he assured himself the burglar wouldn't come tonight, couldn't come tonight. Perhaps John would leave Sherlock's room and go to his own. Yes, that sounded like a good idea. Might as well get a proper bit of sleep if his vigil was over.

He wasn't _scared_, he told himself. He was just being…rational. Logical. Cool.

Sherlock had been dead for three years, now. There was nothing to be frightened over. Although John had his weak moments, he prided himself on keeping his psyche together. After that night in Sherlock's room, though, he thought that perhaps he didn't want to test that too much.

With a grunt, he made his way over to the doorknob and put his hand on the cold, smooth metal.

It was locked.


	3. Chapter 3

((Hello everyone! I've given up on the whole 'deadline' thing completely. These stories are so short that it's a bit ridiculous to wait a week between posting each one. Perhaps sometimes if I upload longer fics, I'll be able to stick to a deadline, but meh. Either way, here's chapter 3 out of 5, and I apologise in advance for the flashback sequence in the beginning! As always, reviews are appreciated!))

Even in the mildly air-conditioned hospital, Afghanistan was still bloody _hot. _

John had never been really fond of it. He'd grown up in London, which was damp and cold more days than not, and he'd gotten used to it. Even on days where London was warm, it was humid, with the promise of rain somewhere. In Afghanistan, there was not. It was dry, dusty heat.

Not that he was particularly thinking about the heat. No, this bloke had collapsed from heat exhaustion, and John was just finishing putting an oxygen mask to his mouth and a cold rag to his head. These cases were becoming more and more frequent, but thankfully, the gunshot diagnoses had been decreasing. He smiled down at him, tapping his shoulder. "You'll be alright, mate, just relax for a bit. I'll get one of the nurses to check up on you later."

In reality, John was only in his mid-twenties. Still in the age where he would be allowed to make a few stupid mistakes, but considering his job and profession, he was forced to be as perfect as possible. Not that John felt particularly stressed by this. No, action and adrenaline was what John Watson was born for. He functioned _well _under those conditions. Give him a cause to be loyal to, and John felt like he had a purpose in life. Take that cause away and he would flounder.

As he was writing a few notes down on the clipboard, John felt someone tap on his shoulder. A bright young orderly named Stamford, although he insisted that John call him Mike. Eager to help and endlessly patient, but he had a tendency to make a gaffe of social situations and he didn't have any real courage or ambition. A man content to stay exactly as he was.

"John, there's a man shot out on the field. Everyone's been saying that he can't be moved, and he'll bleed out soon if he doesn't get help. Will you go?"

"Yes, of course. Right." John nodded, looking towards where the medical supplies were kept, already thinking of what he would need in order to help save the poor man.

It wasn't exactly difficult to find him. John knew him. When they were on leave, they'd often hit the bars together. He was jovial, joking, and never quite serious. Even as John fell to his knees beside him, Sebastian Moran gave a small whistle. "Well, look what we have here. Dr. Watson, putting on his fatigues and deigning to join the rest of us. Come here, I've got something to show you."

All business, John found the source of the bloos and pressed against it. The sound of gunshots and explosions were audible in this heated landscape, and if John looked up, he could see men scurrying about. Sebastian continued talking, apparently completely oblivious that a bullet had just, apparently, pierced an organ. John was thinking that it was his liver, but he couldn't have been positive. Eventually, John opened his mouth to reassure him. A common practice when he wasn't terribly sure the man would live.

"I'm sure you'll be fine, Seb, it's just a little bullet. I've seen you worse when you and I go to the bars together, yeah? We'll fix you right up, you can rest a few days. I've seen you flirt with that nurse, I'm sure she'll be happy to see you again."

"None of that shite, John, you know it'll take more than a bullet to kill Colonel Moran." At that point, he coughed, a small speck of blood appearing on the corner of his mouth. "It would take a _lot _of alcohol to do that." When the sound of gunshots grew closer, Seb's eyes widened slightly. "Look, if it gets too dangerous, you can just-"

Something exploded, and John felt the heat and dust on him, soon followed by a bit of pain. "_Sebast-!" _He shouted, throwing himself over the man and squeezing his eyes. Soon after, he felt a stronger, sharper pain explode through his shoulder.

Back in Sherlock's bedroom, John was throwing his good shoulder against the door, feeling the thin wood buckle under his weight. Tomorrow his shoulder would hurt like a bitch. Not that that really mattered. He tried to jiggle the lock, even pick at it as Sherlock had taught him years ago, but to no avail.

It was only after twenty minutes of that useless endeavor that something actually happened. John cursed himself, and then cursed Sherlock, for most probably strengthening his lock during some case or another. Then he silently apologized to the man for cursing at him.

The lock was, horribly slowly, being unlocked from the other side. Not one to sit around in shock and wait, he reached for his revolver. When the door opened, John's grip would slacken on the gun and the previous memory rushed back to him. All at once. "Sebastian?"

Colonel Moran, standing before him, looked tired. Standing a good few inches above John, he was in dire need of a shave, showed the classic signs of fledgling alcoholism, and a long scar lined the right side of his face.

" 'ello there, John."

Was there a tremor in his voice?

"Awfully sorry to be doing this to you, especially since Afghanistan. God, simpler times, wasn't it?" His voice, faintly Scottish, rang across the empty doorway. Despite himself, John took a step back, raising his gun. At this distance, aiming wouldn't be an issue. And John knew he could deal with the emotional trauma of shooting an old Army mate later.

"Are you the bloke who's been in the flat?" John asked, his voice strong. He had to know. Nothing made sense to him. Why would _Sebastian _rummage through Sherlock's things? Why would _Sebastian _break into his flat so often?

"More of a sniper than a burglar, you know, but I don't think I bungled it up too badly."

"Don't suppose you'll tell me why." John's voice was level and even. It was the voice he used when he didn't want to be swayed by emotions, when he took Sherlock's advice to heart when he said caring was a disadvantage. It was not a question, but a statement.

"Think I'll just show y-"

"Keep that gun up and I'll put a bullet through it." John flicked the safety off on his gun, putting one finger on the trigger. There was a hesitation, and he realized he desperately wanted to know why Sebastian was doing this. Perhaps he'd taken more from Sherlock than he had thought, originally. Knowing who had done it wasn't the best part, knowing _why _was. "Last warning, Colonel."

"Dishonourably discharged, John, you can just call me Seb." Sebastian kept his gun up, but it wasn't even aimed correctly. If he were to shoot at that moment, it would land somewhere above John's head. Taking that moment of uncertainty, John took a step closer to him. If he could just disarm him. "And you really want to know why I'm here, John. I'll tell you."

In saying this, he had made a small gesture, throwing his aim off even further. It was almost as if he wasn't even intending on hitting John. He took the opportunity to take another step forward, so that the barrel of his gun was only three inches from Seb's chest. "I don't want to hurt you, Seb, now just put-"

"_God, do you people ever stop __**talking**_!?"

It was eerily similar. Too similar to a man who had died on a rooftop three years ago, found with a bullet in his brain. John was mentally disarmed for just a second, staring over at Sebastian with widened eyes. Then, all at once, he felt a needleprick in his left wrist. Almost immediately, he felt an overwhelming sense of dizziness and, before he knew what he was doing, his gun had fallen to the floor. "Seb…Seb, _what-" _Hands and knees. Face-first. Then, as John felt his sight and then his senses leave him, he heard one sentence with breathtaking clarity.

"Right. Sorry, John, you just know how bloody hard it is to impress that freak."


	4. Chapter 4

_(( Whew, this one turned out a bit bigger than I anticipated! ^_^ Again, thanks for all the support on this! I should be uploading the final chapter sometime this weekend, fingers crossed! ))_

_This is your last chance, Holmes. We're finishing this. The top of St. Barts in an hour. –SM_

The threat didn't issue an immediate response. Sherlock merely put his mobile down on the nightstand of his hotel room. Yes, he was in London, a fact he didn't doubt the accomplished sniper knew. But Sebastian really hadn't learned anything from his handler if he thought that _that _pitiful text was enough to get Sherlock running. He ran his thumb over the front of the mobile before looking at himself in the mirror.

Three years had passed by. As Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror, he felt just a touch of surprise at how he had changed. There were superficial differences, ones he was sure any average idiot would spot. His hair had grown just a touch longer, and then Sherlock had cut most of it off. At one point, he had dyed it, and then discontinued the practice when he had found it to be more trouble than it was worth. There had come a point in his absence where people simply did not recognize Sherlock Holmes anymore, even if they were staring the dead man in the face.

He had gotten a bit thinner. It wasn't out of purpose or forgetfulness. The _constant _moving, shifting, planning, thinking took up all of his time. Not to mention that money had been an issue, when he had realized he couldn't access his bank accounts without drawing suspicion. Taking cases like he used to would be an even stronger indicator. So, much to Sherlock's eternal dismay, he took odd jobs here and there. Sweeping a Tesco, blowing away some leaves, waiting tables.

Then there were the minor differences, the ones which Sherlock was noticing only then. His eyes were cold and narrowed constantly, as if distrusting the face he saw in the mirror. His mouth was set in a permanent frown, stern and grim. Worst of all, Sherlock despaired, was that the small bit of humanity he had learned from John had completely disappeared. Friendliness and interest could be faked, and he could still do that, now even a bit better than before. But Sherlock could not remember the last time he had truly enjoyed someone's company, when he had thought someone little better than an idiot, or when someone had even made him smile.

Well, no, that wasn't true. He could, but that had been years ago.

_Very persuasive, Sebastian, but you are not the spider, and I am not the fly. –SH_

It was difficult to think of Sebastian and he as enemies, as it was difficult to think of Moriarty and him as enemies. _Rivalry _was far too favourable for Sebastian, because Sherlock wanted nothing more than to see the man dead. However, at some point or another, Sherlock had found the man's mobile, and they often sent teasing, taunting texts to one another. Sherlock had been tracking this sniper, the one who had almost killed John, for a long while. Not the entire three years, mind, but more than he had tracked any of the other men involved in Moriarty's ring.

He was clever, he was amusing, he was absolutely and undeniably evil.

In the saddest way possible, it was probably the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend.

Sebastian's response came in the form of a picture message. Giving a sarcastic roll of his eyes, Sherlock opened it.

It took less than five minutes for Sherlock to bolt from the room and to hail a cabbie. His voice was strangely hoarse as he did so, and he was inwardly thankful that his gun was still just inside his jacket. This was new, and likely Sebastian thought it a game. John had been one game Sherlock had never been willing to play.

And, of course, that was what the picture had been of. It had been John's unconscious face, and given the background of the image and Sebastian's previous message, he was on top of St. Barts. Sherlock swallowed and leaned forward to speak with the cabbie. "_Yes, _faster, hurry." For the first time since he had left John, he felt something icy rush through his veins. This wasn't good, this was horrendous, this was exactly why Sherlock had wanted to cast off all sentiment when he had left John. The thought occurred to him to leave John with Sebastian and let the pieces fall where they may.

He had made the ultimate sacrifice for John already, why should he do anything more?

Almost immediately, Sherlock's brain told him that he was an idiot. If he had one small ounce of humanity left, if he was _anywhere _near as good as John was, then he had to save him. Besides, his old egotistical mind told him, what would be the point of such a clever suicide if John would just be killed anyway?

On the same track, Sherlock knew he had to find a way to get John down and somewhere safe before he had woken. Sherlock had resolved years ago never to come back to John, and he was intent on keeping that promise.

The cab stopped. Sherlock paid. He got out. He went up the stairs. He went out onto the roof.

"Maybe it's not as dramatic as a fall, but I think you'll understand if John's gone a bit weak at the knees."

That was what Sherlock heard, before he noticed anything, before he noticed Sebastian Moran, before he noticed John, or before he noticed the chair John was slumped in. Before he noticed how precariously close to the edge John was slumping. His mind tried to come back with a witty answer, but he couldn't. Instead, he tried John's usual manner of dealing with things, and just raised his gun to Sebastian. As he did so, Sebastian mirrored his movement, bringing the gun up to aim directly at Sherlock's heart.

"You see, Holmes, I knew I had to entice you to come up here. You wouldn't take any old case, now, would you?" A sneering smile, but Sherlock's eyes weren't focused on the man in front of him. "No, you'd only come if it was _interestin' _ to you, if it had something to _give _to you. See, that's why Johnny-boy here was always a better man than you." Sebastian laughed out loud, his eyes drifting down to the unconscious man in the chair. "_I guess that's why he's in this position, now, isn't he?" _

Sherlock wasn't having any of it. Already, being up here was giving him unpleasant memories. Moriarty taunting him, telling him he had won. Sherlock had known his plan by then, but his heart had still broken when he had looked down on John. Heard John's disbelieving, insistent words. And then there was the _air, _whooshing around him, looking down, seeing the ground speed up to him so frightengly fast, and God help him, Sherlock had never been afraid of heights, but-

"Sorry, am I _boring _you?" Sebastian's hand shot out to hold the back of John's chair, and tilted him back easily. If Sebastian had let go, then, John would've fallen. Sherlock's heart jumped into his throat.

"No." He coughed out, lowering his gun and extending his hands to his sides. They both knew Sherlock's physical 'surrender' was just a bluff. "But I was wondering what it was you wanted from me. Kill me? Fine. You could've done so the moment I had stepped out on the roof. You want to tell me something."

His face curled into an awful smirk, and Sebastian set the chair back on the ground again. "I'd just like to tell you a little story, Sherlock, and that's all. Then you can make your choice, _again, _and we'll see if you think so fondly of John this time. I'm just going to talk to you, and then you decide who dies."

Sherlock looked down at his feet for a second, pretending to consider the situation. Inwardly, his mind was set. So, this would be where Sherlock Holmes met his untimely end. The great Sherlock Holmes would be no more. His great mind couldn't save himself, now, and Sherlock felt miserable at that fact. However, John simply had to live. While it would never be said that Sherlock was unselfish, he did realize how truly good John Watson was. London needed him, certainly more than London needed Sherlock Holmes.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Sebastian gave a small smile, then reached down to affectionately cuff John's shoulder. On the impact, John's body slumped to the side, nearly falling out of his chair. With a grunt, Seb pushed him back to place. Sherlock's warning of '_Be _gentle!' died in his throat. "Did John ever tell you how he got his wound, Mr. Holmes?"

"He never told me, it was _obvious. _Army injury."

Somehow, he didn't think that was what Sebastian meant.

"Oh, you're good, aren't you? No, Mr. Holmes, John and I knew each other in the Army. He and I _despised _each other. Really, it was absolutely mad, how much we hated each other. Though I suppose it made sense, considering how _I _got all the bloody glory for being on the front lines and he was in that damn hospital all day." A lingering smile was on his face, but his eye twitched. Sherlock noticed it and recorded it. "One night, John wakes me up in my tent, and he's _pissed drunk. _He wakes me up and he starts _yelling, threatening, _and then I noticed this stupid bloke's got a bloody _gun _on him!" As he continued along his narrative, his voice became louder, more brash. "So what does he do? He fires a shot at me! Complete miss! And, o'course, I've got to shoot at _him, _now. I shoot and he falls. Bam. Like a sodding rock. Next week I'm dishonourably discharged for shooting a bloody doctor."

Sherlock knew the story was completed, and he looked down at his feet. It was a convincing story, and Sherlock had always been deathly curious about how John had gotten that scar. Not to mention that he had learned in his three years that people weren't always good, that even John must have had a dark side. There were no direct holes in his story, either, and Sherlock felt his resolve began to weak. He heard a small noise from John's chair.

"_Wouldn't…have…missed."_

Two pairs of eyes shot over to John, but it seemed as if the man wasn't saying any more. Indeed, his head tried to hold itself up, but then simply fell to the side. His eyelids fluttered and he rolled his hands into fists.

"Amusing story, Sebastian, but I've been so weary of _fairy tales _lately." Sherlock rose the gun again, trained directly on Sebastian's chest. Sebastian responded by tipping John's chair back again, but Sherlock didn't put down his gun.

"You want to kill me, Mr. Holmes? Fine, go on. You shoot me, me and John both go over. Doesn't matter, really, you're killing a murderer _and _a liar. Let's hope you know who is who. You shoot yourself, and I'll bloody push John over right here. I gave you the easy way out, Mr. Holmes, and I've known a lot of good men who have taken that route, shameful as it is. You didn't want it."

The safety was flicked off.

John's chair was pushed just a little more.

Sherlock stood a step forward, and Sebastian took a step back. This game had to be over, Sherlock told himself, if only for John's sake. The man seemed to be lapsing into unconsciousness again, his hands going limp on his lap. Good. Sherlock raised his gun again, and Sebastian chuckled.

"You won't do it. John's _heroism_ rubbed off on you, hasn-"

His sentence was cut off by a startled grunt, and suddenly, three things happened at once. Later, when Sherlock was remembering this day, he would remember them one at a time.

One. Sebastian clutched at the new wound on his stomach, blood starting to seep through his shirt. A look of sheer pain crossed his face, and Sherlock remembered the sick burst of joy he had gotten from seeing that. He had then stumbled back, leading directly into part Two.

Two. Sebastian had stepped off the building, leading him to fall backward to the ground. Later, he would ponder the sentimental and symbolic meanings of Sherlock falling face-first and Sebastian falling while looking up at the sky. Sebastian didn't scream as he let out the ground, but that was only logical, all wind would be ripped out of his lungs. He didn't remember hearing the smash.

Three. With nobody to support John, the chair tipped backwards over the side of the building, and Sherlock's moves were completely automatic and involuntary. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough to grab John's torso, but he had moved quickly enough to snatch his legs. He heard John's body hit the side of the building, but John was still alive.

So there Sherlock Holmes was, after years of being the intellectual one, the braniac who didn't need to use brawn, and who often teased John for having more muscle than wit at times.

Holding his best friend up (who weighed quite a bit more than he did) by his feet, feeling his grip slip, inch by inch.


	5. Chapter 5

((Well, here it is, folks, the last chapter of Housebreaking Haunt. Thanks again for all the feedback, sweethearts. I'd love to post anoter Sherlock Fanfiction soon when the muse hits me, but I've been dabbling in Avengers and Skyfall (-sneaky eyes- 00Q) lately, as well as a few minor others. Hopefully I'll see you all soon!))

The first actual physical action John was aware of was a small pressure on his hand. It didn't take long afterwards for him to open his eyes, and he realized, not without a small bit of confusion, that he was back in the flat. He was lying on his couch, a blanket was over him, and his head was propped up on a small pillow at the end of the couch.

What was more alarming was the figure sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing away from him. In one hand, he was searching through files on the table.

The other hand was grasping his own, holding it tightly.

At first, John felt like he had died. Of course he must have died. Sebastian must have shot him, and this must have been a piss-poor heaven. Sherlock was here, so John knew it couldn't be hell, but 221B seemed just a bit too painful to be heaven.

Or he could be alive.

That thought eventually wormed his way into his conscious mind, and it came in the way of his frantic heartbeat, how heavy his body felt, and the small bit of pain that came from his upper shoulders.

"You're awake."

Sherlock.

_Sherlock. _

He was speaking, he was here, he was in the flat, he was holding John's hand, he was breathing, living, here, and damn it, John nearly passed out. As it was, the world became very fuzzy, and his head hit the pillow once more. However, he managed to mumble out two words.

"You're alive."

"While it is wonderful to see your intelligence has not decreased since our last meeting, John, I'm afraid that I still hate for you to point out the obvious. Now, you've established rather intense bruising on your back, neck, and spine. Move your legs and arms. I want to see if there's any motor damage."

Something clicked within John just then, like a long-forgotten memory. It was the way Sherlock was speaking and choosing his words. Needlessly long and just a bit insulting. There were only two times when Sherlock did this: when he was disregarding John entirely, and when he was worried, about himself or another. It didn't take long for John to figure out which one it was.

John complied, moving his legs and arms about. As he did so, he noticed that Sherlock still had a tight hold on his right hand. That thought process was interrupted by a sharp sting of pain on his bad shoulder, and he uttered a small pained grunt. Sherlock jumped at the movement, turning around so that he could stare at John.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, why didn't you just take me to the hospital?"

Sherlock had leaned back on his heels, looking mildly surprised by the question. Perhaps he'd been expecting John to berate him, to disbelieve him, to call him a ghost or a delusion. Certainly, John noted, he hadn't expected John to criticize his wellness choices.

"Er, I don't like hospitals." Sherlock spoke, stuttering a bit on the first syllable. Quickly (and a bit forcefully, John thought painfully), he raised their intertwined hands. "I've been keeping a steady watch on your heart rate, John. If it grew to a dangerously low or high level, I would have called Emergency. A little faith for the man who saved your life, yes?"

John's eyes focused on their clasped hands, and then at Sherlock's face.

And for one solid second, John hoped to God that he wouldn't ever get married, because he would never be as happy to see a face as he was when he saw Sherlock Holmes back from the grave.

Sherlock saw the sentimental look cross John's face and pulled his hand away. Perhaps Sherlock saw the glimmer of tears in the corners of John's eyes, or John saw Sherlock swallow, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat. John knew, deep down, they were _both _trying so hard not to bloody cry in front of one another.

"_Damn it, you sodding bloody bastard-" _

It was John who finally broke the barrier, because somewhere in a whimsical room of his mind he knew that Sherlock would rather cut off his own hands than initiate a hug. He sat up quickly, and nearly threw himself on the man. As it was, Sherlock had to rapidly (and awkwardly) seat himself on the couch. For a second, Sherlock just froze, his arms pinned to his sides.

The movement was slow and gradual. Sherlock's hands placed themselves on John's sides, and then inched their way until he had his arms wrapped around John just as tightly. For a good few minutes, the two strongest men in London just held each other and _sobbed. _

John stopped crying first, but Sherlock didn't. Even when John withdrew his hands from around Sherlock, Sherlock still held onto him. He did so with a mad, frantic intensity, his fingernails digging into John's sore back and pressing his head into John's chest. When he stopped crying, his arms slackened around John and he pulled away without looking John in the eyes.

The sentimental moment was over. An awkward silence filled the air.

"So…Sebastian died, then." John spoke first, staring at his shoes in front of him His back and shoulders had a new stinging sort of pain from Sherlock's fingers, and he knew he probably wouldn't be moving around much the next few days. No matter. Unpacking wouldn't require _that _much effort, would it? He felt a good bit of happiness at the thought, and so, his next spoken question was without much sadness. "I didn't see you shoot him. Was there someone else on the roof?"

"You remember?" Sherlock repeated in surprise, letting out a calm breath and leaning back on the couch. They were sitting close together on the couch, and John could tell that Sherlock was starting to squirm in discomfort. John moved a few inches away and Sherlock sighed and ceased twitching. "I suppose you must have been mildly aware, yes. There was nobody else _on _the roof, John, but as you've noted, there are numerous buildings surrounding St. Barts. Numerous windows. Numerous floors. And it's not that hard to hire a sniper, unfortunately." A small smirk appeared on the side of his face. "Perhaps someone didn't enjoy Colonel Moran masquerading as Mr. Moriarty."

At that thought, a small ball of worry started to twist itself in Sherlock's mind. In the weeks to pass, that thought would turn into a theory, the theory would turn into a hypothesis, the hypothesis would turn into an experiment, and the experiment would turn into fear and worry and hatred and all the other emotions Sherlock had vowed to rid himself of.

After all, Sherlock thought wryly, it wasn't so difficult at all for men to come back from the dead.

John nodded, willing to accept any of Sherlock's explanations at the moment. Something troubled him, however.

"When Sebastian was telling that story of me…of me shooting him. Did you-?"

Sherlock held up one hand and shook it lightly.

"I once had a friend who shot a man for me within a week of knowing me. He could have faced any number of issues from that, whether they were legal or psychological. Yet he did it anyway, to save a man he thought was a hero. I know that people do not change, John, and that man couldn't have tried to kill a man in cold blood and then save my life years later."

"You…you're…" John whispered for a second, before a wide smile appeared on his face. In happiness, this time, John reached over and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock felt so damn real, and so very much _there. _He knew, and would be correct in saying, that he would be beyond angry at Sherlock tomorrow, that he would yell at him, punch him, berate him. For now, though, John couldn't summon up anything than pure happiness.

How on Earth could he be angry at the man who had given him a bloody miracle?

"The hugging, again. John, do stop it, you smell of disinfectant."

John pulled away from him and wiped his eyes, looking down at his trousers for a second. "Still the same old dick as ever, thank God." He looked up at him with a smile.

"How about a cuppa?"

He didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock smile so wide.


End file.
